


All things sacred, all men divine

by thegoodreverend



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), dettlaff adopts a child on accident because that's how we deal withour emotional problems, dettlaff has a lot of Feelings TM, dettlaff learns how to be a real human being, fix-it AU, flips back and forth between timelines and POVs, no beta we die like salty white haired witchers, regis never shuts up, vampire husbands hide out in skellige
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend
Summary: A strange twist of fate brings Dettlaff and Regis together again after the terrible events in Beauclair. Hiding out on a remote island with a distant man he still loves deeply and surrounded by nothing but humans,  Dettlaff must come to terms with both his actions and their many consequences.
Relationships: Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 59





	1. Beauclair I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends - this is pitched as taking place in Skellige, but it's actually going to be flipping back and forth between there and future-Beauclair, and starts off at the latter place! It's also definitely more of a very long character study than a plot. 
> 
> Technically, it's a sequel to ["we love the things we love for what they are"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595998/chapters/54000277), but it's not necessary to have read it. It's just Regis wandering around being sad and goes into more detail about how Dettlaff is even around for this.

There were a number of appropriate times to get up in the morning, and Regis abided none of them. Any time between five and seven, for instance - all perfectly normal times to rise. Not too early, plenty of your day left, lots of time to prepare. Regis only ever seemed to get up around nine or never go to bed at all unless somebody forced him to do otherwise. Once, Dettlaff, having been awake for a full hour and well into his second cup of coffee, had seen him lurch from bed in a moment of sudden realization and then flit about the apartment in and out of a mist-form in a state of half-dress and chaos until he had managed to get himself put together enough to run out the door at eight in the morning, only to return thirty seconds later for the papers he had brought home to work on and hurriedly wish Dettlaff a good day at work. It had been an impressive display of… something. Of Regis, he supposed. 

The clock was blinking 8:00, and Dettlaff had only just gotten up. It was the latest he’d slept in almost a year and a half, and he still felt tired. And sad. He didn’t understand that - didn’t understand why he should feel sad about anything. Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine - had been for decades, and yet still he felt this periodic heavy sense of sorrow. It hadn’t been this remarkable for a while, but it always came and went in some form. His fatigue at least was explainable by how late he and Regis had stayed up, as they had both spent the night at a fundraiser for the local historical society with a substantial number of Regis' colleagues which was always exhausting for Dettlaff because they never shut up and they all wanted to talk to him for some reason - but somehow, he doubted that was the actual cause. He gripped the curtains he was about to fling open, and glanced back at the bed. 

Regis was asleep on his stomach, head half under the pillow and one arm up and looped over where his eyes should be visible, the other splayed over the space Dettlaff had recently occupied. The blanket was low across his back, tugged there as Dettlaff had untangled himself from the sheets - his skin was pale and dotted with freckles, delicate-looking like porcelain. It felt delicate, too, and tucking himself under Regis’ body and feeling it under his palm seemed better than opening the blinds. He would touch the soft skin on his lower back and slide under his arm, squeezing as close as possible to avoid the edge of the bed, and Regis would stir and pull his head from under the pillow to rest it against Dettlaff’s forehead instead, and because Regis liked to sleep in until ten and it was a weekend he could just stay there. 

So that’s what he did, and it went almost exactly as he anticipated. Regis made a soft sound and kissed his forehead and then held him close, and Dettlaff listened to the slow and steady beat of his heart. Being able to close his eyes and tuck himself into to a warm, dark, comforting place helped with the feeling of sorrow, although it didn’t banish it completely. If he wasn’t careful he’d start crying spontaneously. That had only happened in front of Regis once and he never wanted it to again - usually simply being around Regis or otherwise occupied by another living being was enough to distract him from the absolute irrationality of his moods, but sometimes it was bad enough that he could focus on nothing else.

“It’s past seven,” Regis mumbled. Dettlaff only nodded and slung a leg over his mate’s. Regis let out a tired sounding huff of air and rearranged himself sleepily, so even more of Dettlaff was tucked under his shoulder. “Well past.”

He was quiet long enough that Dettlaff thought he must have fallen back asleep. It lulled him into a false sense of security, a half-asleep place where he could focus on Regis’ musky, woody cologne and the rise and fall of his chest, the feeling of his chest hair occasionally brushing his chin. His fingers roamed over a ridge of Regis’ spine, over the rise of a mole. It shocked him when Regis spoke again. 

“You should see the doctor,” he yawned. “As nice as this is, it isn’t your usual modus operandi.”

Dettlaff grunted, and shoved his head against the base of Regis’ neck. Burrowed further, as if that would stop the conversation. He knew it wouldn't. Very little could stop Regis when he wanted to talk.

“I can feel you, you know.” Regis’ voice was low and quiet, and Dettlaff could feel it reverberating in his chest. “It isn’t healthy to go on like this. This kind of sadness isn’t… it will consume you.” 

“If you are afraid that I will revert to-“

“No, no. I have no fear regarding your ability to control yourself, my dear. My concern is only for your health and happiness.”

Regis moved his hand to cup the back of his head, trailing his nails across his scalp. Dettlaff closed his eyes, and tried not to think. Or feel. He had varying degrees of success.

“I know you don’t trust her, and you’ve a right not to. But I do. She isn’t compiling information about our weaknesses, or planning to hurt us. She only wants to help. She’s helped me, and I would very much appreciate it if you would speak to her.”

Dettlaff sighed. “I will think about it.”

The doctor was a woman who worked at the college with Regis. Both of them were researchers, although for very different fields, and Dettlaff had no idea how they had met. Knowing Regis he had probably started attending lectures about things that had nothing to do with history and cultural study, which he’d recently turned his considerable intellect towards, and had approached the doctor afterwards and talked at her incessantly. At one point Regis had told him what she studied and what her name was, but he only remembered that she studied bodies and brains and specialized in non-humans and her name might have started with a “b” or a “g”. Since he often accompanied Regis to social functions it was very possible he had met her and not realized, which made him deeply uncomfortable since she now knew what he looked like and what he was. It was possible Regis had not told her the man he called his partner was also of the same species, but he doubted it.

Apparently one evening after several dozen friendly conversations she had started expressing an interest in their kind, and Regis had just… come clean. Relating this information later he’d completely missed Dettlaff’s astounded expression and then had waived off his concerns. Since that point he’d spent countless hours allowing her to poke and prod, lecturing her and explaining their customs and traits, and even went so far as to let her draw blood. He was adamant that she harbored no ill intent and her sole purpose was to improve the quality of life for all, but Dettlaff doubted. She might be as Regis said, but she worked for a company, which meant her research could be used for other purposes - and the fact that her work with Regis seemed to span all fields of research from the sociological to the physiological implied that there were others involved. Regis continued to appear shockingly unconcerned, especially after the doctor used her research to recommend _pills_. They had gone through several kinds of drugs, some of which had given Regis tremendous headaches and hives and terrible nausea and on one memorable occasion severe hallucinations, but they had eventually landed on one that interacted well with Regis’ body. He had been on the drug for about a year as he changed his habits and bettered himself, weaned off of it, and now he spent considerably less time gazing blankly at the wall. 

She had clearly helped Regis and he was glad for that, but Dettlaff thought he’d rather keep his identity to himself and feel all of his pain. Even if it didn’t make any sense to him, he wanted to feel it. 

“We should do something today,” Regis said, squeezing the back of Dettlaff’s neck before rolling onto his back. Dettlaff watched for a moment, taking in the wild angles of Regis’ now predominately black hair before following him to put his mouth and teeth against his neck. Regis chuckled.

“Not that.”

Huffing against his skin, Dettlaff made a displeased noise and put his hand on Regis’s lower stomach, stretching his fingers out towards his hip. 

“… Perhaps a little of that. But I was referring to leaving the apartment. The Kasper Daniel Frede show is on display as of last night, and we did not attend the opening because you so graciously agreed to allow me to expose you to far too many academics. Which means you’ve not yet had time to look at it, and we could very well occupy ourselves for the afternoon there. What do you say, my dear Dettlaff?” 

He propped himself up on his elbow to properly look at Regis, peering at him. “Only if you agree not to spend the entire time talking.”

“I will do my utmost, but I’m afraid I can’t promise,” Regis said, trying his best not to smile. It didn’t matter - the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Dettlaff leaned down to kiss them. 

The profound sense of sadness, temporarily alleviated by the sensation of Regis’ body against his own, returned in a new form as they walked down the busy street. Regis looped his arm in Dettlaff’s, which didn’t stop him from gesticulating wildly as he spoke. He was already lecturing on the life and philosophy of Frede, and Dettlaff attempted to hope that he was getting it out of his system early but he found he didn’t care enough to continue. Normally he would. He’d genuinely be a little annoyed at the prospect of Regis chattering on in a museum as he was trying to look at art with a dozen other respectably quiet individuals, although it would eventually turn into the particular kind of fondness that often accompanied his feelings of frustration with Regis’ habits; the kind he felt as he picked up and organized all of Regis’ research papers, books he somehow neglected to put back on the shelf, the herbs and spices he left partially open on the counters, the dishes he left in the sink when they could very well be put in the actual dishwasher. But now he felt next to nothing. He had just enough energy to be concerned about that, because normally Regis’ presence made him feel better immediately, but the concern went almost as soon as it came.

The strange feeling hadn’t started when they moved to Beauclair, but it had gotten worse. He wasn’t sure it would get better when they eventually left because it didn’t seem to be tied to anything in particular - he hadn’t felt it when he first saw the monument that honored the victims of his awful crimes, the result of his massive overreaction. No, that statue in that small park had simply lit additional fire under his already extreme commitment to being _better_. In fact, when he wasn’t feeling sad and apathetic, he felt even better than he had before. He had more energy, assisted strangers on the street, painted more, even socialized - he took classes, for Melitele’s sake. Sure, he grew annoyed more easily and wanted to fuck all the time, but he was generally happier. So, he doubted it was Beauclair. 

Moving to the city had been his idea. Regis had been hesitant, and had argued against it right up to the point where they had seen the city in the distance and Dettlaff had not spontaneously burst into a fit of rage and dramatics, undoing decades of self-improvement and atonement. By the time they’d reached Corvo Bianco to talk to the sorceress he was back to his regular self and talking non-stop as Dettlaff examined an atrocious painting of an unhappy young girl that had been hung in what once was a guest bedroom. They’d moved in to a cheap apartment that was in desperate need of repair shortly thereafter, and Regis had found that his extensive network of academic connections extended far south enough that the university was happy to bring him on board almost immediately. This had given Dettlaff time enough to find a job that didn’t involve talking to too many people, and now he was archiving works at the Toussaint Art Museum. His staff was small, and comprised mostly of quiet people with strange senses of humor who were very easy to tolerate, and he was able to volunteer with the children's program often.

He and Regis lived in the same terrible apartment now; the funds they’d save up would help the next move go easier, especially as the landlord lowered their rent as they made improvements to the unit, and now they had more time to stay put. Regis no longer looked older than he should and neither of them looked like they were aging backwards, and while it could no longer be argued that they were explicitly young it was certainly easier to stay in the same place for longer. They had a good twenty years before anybody got overly suspicious, forty or so if they claimed elven heritage. Dettlaff was looking forward to not moving - he was tired of it. They’d been on the move for nearly two centuries, and he was really more of a nester. Now all he had to do was make sure his face didn’t slip and he didn’t attract too many of Toussaint’s substantial vampiric residents, and they could rest comfortably for longer than they’d been able to for some time. Frequent trips into the woods to help the others establish a safe territory helped keep them away from the city, and he had worn his human face for so long he barely thought about it anymore. It seemed exceptionally attainable. 

This most recent move had been a decision borne primarily out of wanting to prove to Regis that he was trustworthy. Four hundred years ago he wouldn’t have been able to handle it - the memories would have been too strong, and he would have succumbed to them. The shame of his actions, the pain of that heartbreak - simply too much, even quite some time removed from them. But now he was okay. He was getting better; he wasn’t fully better, wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be for Regis, but he was closer to it. On the bright side, the apathy made it easier to make good decisions not entirely based in his extreme emotional responses.

“Dettlaff?” 

Snapping back to attention, he looked from what turned out to be the museum doors to Regis, who had stopped in front of the stairs. He was looking at him, thick dark brows knit together in concern.

“Are you alright?” 

He nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was a lie, and he didn’t like to lie. Especially not to Regis.

“We can go back,” Regis said, voice unsure and concerned.

“No need.”

“Or we can go somewhere else - I’m sure you’ve seen it already, I didn’t mean to push you-“

“The staff accompanying the show have been quite possessive of it, and we have been occupied fully by the recent archeological finds. I assure you, I’ve seen relatively little and would very much like to go inside.”

Regis nodded and for a second Dettlaff was able to focus on what an odd pair they made. Perhaps had always made. Regis stood there in his worn boots and slim jeans with a wrinkled shirt made out of a thick but cheaply soft and clingy material Dettlaff could not identify, thick grey-peppered hair wild even pulled back, smoothing the lapels of Dettlaff’s suit. Dettlaff always dressed in a suit - even the casual ones were always neat and pressed. His hair was always slicked back, his boots always polished. His only quirk was that he still wore gloves. Regis had developed a method of touching that avoided the sensitive flesh of his palms, but Dettlaff had not. Their polarity was not dissimilar in the past, although in their youth they had been on opposite sides of the spectrum. Then, Dettlaff had looked like a wild beast and Regis was well put together unless he was utterly debauched. And then later after Dettlaff had been socialized and put in sleek human clothing Regis had preferred to dress like some kind of herbalist hermit peddling moonshine, which, Dettlaff acknowledged, he actually was. And now here they were, a skinny middle-aged man in clothes that clearly had never met a hanger and a shirt that wasn’t even tucked in nearly pressed up against his complete opposite in everything other than age and complexion. 

He focused on that, and the very palpable sense of calm he got as Regis kissed him and sent it out over the bond. Regis didn’t really understand what he was feeling and so didn’t know how to deal with it, but he appreciated the effort. Dettlaff grabbed his hand and pushed their foreheads together briefly before turning and heading up the stairs. 

Regis was, as expected, only quiet in volume inside and sometimes not even that. He started off cheerily greeting - and then engaging - all of the museum staff while Dettlaff gave only a tight nod, and then each of the docents and security guards on the way in to the display. Dettlaff had eventually trailed his hand over the small of his back as a means of indicating he was about to walk away and leave him to his conversation, and then proceeded to enter the gallery on his own. 

He was only vaguely familiar with Frede’s work. Most of it was epic landscapes and lighting - standard romantic fare. Some people, some haunted scenes of abandoned architecture and strangely twisting trees. He always liked what he saw, but had never gone out of his way to look at more. Now he was almost glad; they were stunning paintings, epic in scale and nature, and couldn’t possibly hold the same impact in a reproduced format. He felt the same way about all the studies and sketches the collection contained. 

Normally, Dettlaff wandered an entire collection slowly without stopping and then circled around to investigate his favorites in greater detail. This time, though, he paused on his first walk through to look at a half-finished painting that appeared to be a study for full piece that Frede never got around to. Regis caught up with him there, immediately beginning to chatter at him. Dettlaff held up a finger, and Regis shut his mouth, and then looked at the painting when Dettlaff pointed. 

“Well,” Regis said, sounding oddly mischievous, “this is the first time I’ve seen a painting of _that_. Odd, considering how popular Skellige legends were amongst painters in this particular movement, don’t you think?”

Dettlaff hummed his agreement. The portrayal of Lurthen, oddly lit in an epic storm and surrounded by a naval force of invaders, wasn’t strictly accurate. The town was a generic representation of a small Skellige village, and the coastline wasn’t quite right, but the painting wasn’t actually about the village. It was about the two long-clawed dark figures, small in scale but somehow the focus of the entire massive study, perched on the roof of a longhouse. The plaque next to the study translated the title as “The Beasts of Hindarsfjall” and then went on to summarize the story.

“Do you miss it there?” Regis said, voice now properly quiet. 

“Yes.” 

Regis said nothing in reply, and instead reached to link their fingers together and gently press the heel of his hand into Dettlaff’s palm. 


	2. Skellige I

The slender grey-haired man who always smiled with his lips pressed tightly together was practically a fixture in Lurthen after only a year of settling there, and by the middle of his fourth year nobody could really remember life before his arrival. He was always charming, always pleasant to talk to and exceptionally kind to the children, who often attempted to follow him home. Clearly a gifted healer, his skills had been useful and while he often exchanged them for goods he was also known to dispense them freely. He called himself Regis and was squatting in the long-abandoned hut west of the village. As rumor had it he had come in the night accompanied by a wisp of a person concealed by a long cloak who had never actually been seen up close. Nobody had asked them to move out. Regis was simply too pleasant of a presence. 

Rumors also held that Regis was caring for a sick man who could not leave the hut. Nobody had seen a second person since that first night, and he had only been observed by a single man on the dock. Regis didn’t deny the rumors but didn’t offer much in the way of details and as a result it was frequently a point of discussion and the more inquisitive villagers also suggested going to get a better look. None of them did so. They valued privacy and if Regis was caring for a sick friend their interruptions would not help. It remained, however, a persistent topic of conversation. 

It was a sunny summer day when a group of younger villagers decided that it was simply too interesting a situation not to investigate. Over the past few months Regis’ visits to town had decreased dramatically and he had ordered a number of strange supplies from the local sailors, sometimes even going to the big island to fetch them himself. Charcoal and papers and pigments, books not related at all to his usual interests, clothes that nobody saw him wear after purchasing them. Rumors about his ill charge had picked up as a result, piquing interest all over again. The group who decided to investigate numbered a total of seven and were a mix of ages, the oldest amongst them being sixteen and the youngest being nine. They were not particularly devious, or particularly good - only inquisitive.   
They also thought they were particularly smart. Instead of going to the hut directly they first took the long way around to go to Lofoten, which was a place they had all been before but were happy to return to. The abandoned town held endless appeal; nobody had lived there for over a century since the Wild Hunt stormed through on their chase after the Empress, and it was broadly considered to be cursed. Nobody had ever, or would ever, return. Only those looking to scare their younger siblings with ghost stories or adventure in the ruins went there, and even they went only during the day. From a practical standpoint there were too many monsters to encounter on the island at night, but it was also honestly incredibly creepy. 

The second youngest in the group of villagers was named after a queen, and she was growing into the name. She was the wisest of her companions, and the most likely to stop and think although far too curious to have thought through their plan to go to Regis’ hut. The plan to go to Lofoten first was hers, and she was the first to suggest they leave the ruins before sunset started since there was little chance they’d see much of anything if they passed by the hut in the dark of night, and the chances that the barber-surgeon had returned in the meantime were much higher the later it got.

At first she lead the group of them and as they walked along the overgrown seaside path and laughed with each other and shared stories and theories about why Regis had kept his friend a secret for almost four years. Of course, there had been dozens of theories on why his friend couldn’t leave the hut, and they were all rehashed on that walk. Perhaps his legs were missing, or perhaps he was severely contagious (“Ridiculous,” she said, “Regis isn’t ill!”), or perhaps he was twisted by injuries from war and terrible to look at. There was even a suggestion that he was allergic to the sun, which the girl was later surprised to find out was a real thing as she explained the rumor to Regis, although it did not afflict the man in the hut. The oldest boy suggested that the man was not a man at all, but a terrible monster who owed allegiance to the barber-surgeon. 

“Perhaps he’s just shy,” the girl said. Several of the others laughed. 

The hut came into view and as it did she decided to drop back and let the oldest boy lead. She wasn’t sure why, but it suddenly occurred to her that she was about to stray into a place she had not been invited to. Regis had been nothing but kind to all of them and he’d kept his home and companion private for a reason, and they were about to broach his trust. Fear came into play as well - there was always the chance that his friend wasn’t ill, that he was simply terrifying. As kind as Regis was, kind people are capable of having cruel friends. Regis might be understanding of their trespass, even, but his friend might not be. 

Until they were close enough to make out details of the hut on the horizon, the oldest boy was happy to lead. She thought he might remain that way until he stopped abruptly, causing the others to crash into him gently. He shushed them before they could complain. 

“There’s a man!” he hissed. 

“Well, of course, stupid - that’s what we’re here to see, right?” said another. 

“I mean he’s outside the house! He’s right on the shore, we’re gonna walk right into him.”

“Well we can’t just stand here - what was the point of going to Lofoten if we’re just gonna act weird? What if he’s seen us already, that’s even worse,” the girl said, despite the twist of nerves in her stomach. She didn’t receive a response, and so she sighed heavily and shoved her way back up to the front. “Chickens.” 

There was indeed a man standing on the shore, and while his hair was white and grey and his body was thin he certainly wasn’t Regis. It was possible he was even thinner, as his clothes appeared too big and had been belted to his body. She wanted to stop and turn around and run, but knew she couldn’t because his head was definitely tilted strangely and she was sure that he’d seen them, and it wouldn’t do to just stand there or run away. So she held her head up and kept walking. The others followed, more quiet than they’d ever been.

When she got close she slowed down and stopped a good distance from him, because he was looking at them and seemed intense and a little mean. There were lines on his face that made him look like he was frowning and his eyes were deep-set and under a heavily furrowed brow. She got the distinct impression of a coiled snake ready to strike, and it was only the fact that he seemed frail and like he might be blown over by a strong breeze that stopped her from running as fast as she could right past him. 

“Are you Master Regis’ friend?” she called. She had to shout over the waves. 

The man’s jaw shifted, and his intense gaze remained on her. He did not look at the others. After what felt like a thousand years of sitting in vague fear and was certainly long enough for her to reconsider her thoughts about running, he turned a little more towards them and spoke. His voice was deep and calm, and she’d never heard his accent before.

“I am.”

“We are, too,” she said quickly. Best to establish that early on. 

“He is not at home.”

“That’s okay!”

He didn’t reply, but finally looked at the others. She didn’t have to look to know that they were shrinking back and it took a considerable amount of effort to hold her ground as the man began to approach.

“What are you doing out here?”

“We were exploring Lofoten. It’s all abandoned, it’s really cool. Have you seen it?” 

The man seemed tired from the relatively short walk over to their little group, and his focus was now entirely back on the girl, but as he drew closer she became considerably less afraid. The man was incredibly thin and very pale even against the muted light colors of his Skellige clothing, and very tired, and she thought the tension in him might not be like a coiled snake. It may have been closer to the way a cat tensed when it was scared. Once he was finally in front of her she wasn’t afraid at all, and he crouched down to get a look at her straight on. Perhaps also to rest. 

“What is your name, small child?”

“Cerys,” she says. 

Something like recognition flickered on his face and his expression softened considerably. “Like the queen.”

“I’m named after her.”

“It is a good thing, then. She seems honorable. Regis has been reading stories about her to me.” 

Cerys nodded, and the man paused for an almost awkward amount of time before he extended his hand. It bore a fingerless glove, and his nails were long and his fingers looked shockingly thin, but it was a normal hand and utterly unthreatening. Cerys shook it as confidently as she could. 

“I am called Dettlaff.” 

One by one, Cerys introduced her friends. The youngest ones were the first to lose the edge of fear, and the oldest never really did although he concealed it behind what he probably considered to be toughness. The man called Dettlaff shook each of their hands and ignored the older boy almost entirely.

At dusk Regis returned. They had long since pulled Dettlaff towards a tide pool where he was still sitting and listening to their lectures on all the creatures in it and had been invited to touch a number of them. He offered little in the way of conversation but watched them with great interest and curiosity despite his obvious fatigue, and nodded encouragingly when their ramblings turned more towards local myths and ghost stories. Cerys was the first to see Regis return - he had stopped very suddenly upon catching sight of them and stood clutching at the bag he always carried as if he was nervous. He was full of tension and for a second fear spiked in her gut. Perhaps she was wrong and he was actually going to be upset with them for trespassing. Her initial fears about Dettlaff had been wrong, so it wasn’t impossible that her faith in Regis had been misplaced. In the time it took her to think about that, he was already walking towards them and there was a smile on his face. It was his usual close-lipped half-smile, but to Cerys it seemed tighter than usual, and he walked with a certain urgency.

“I see you’ve made friends,” he said brightly, and the others all looked towards him. The youngest jumped up and ran to hug his legs. Dettlaff, though, didn’t look at all, and Cerys got the feeling that somehow he knew Regis was there before she did. 

“We were coming back from Lofoten,” Cerys offered, and recognized it as a mistake immediately because Regis raised an eyebrow at her and a brief flicker of an expression that was entirely unimpressed passed over his face. Of course he knew. She’d been foolish to even attempt an excuse. 

“I am told it is interesting,” Dettlaff jumped in. He gave her a quick glance, and she had to resist smiling at him. 

“It is, absolutely. Quite fascinating, although the priestesses do try to dissuade wayward youths and morally upstanding citizens from trespassing. Terribly cursed, I understand.”

“It’s not that bad,” a boy shrugged. Cerys did not miss Dettlaff’s very slight smile. 

“I am inclined to agree with you, young man. But now I think we’d better get you home to your families. The sun is about to disappear entirely, I’m afraid, and I can’t have you all getting assaulted by drowners on the walk home so I’ll have to see you there myself.”

“I can protect us, grandpa,” the oldest boy said, both embarrassed by the suggestion that he couldn’t defend their little group on his own and anxious to leave, and Regis held up his hands placatingly.

“Of your strength and bravery I’ve no doubt, but it is a simple matter of mathematics and likelihoods, as drowners often travel in packs of five or six and there is only one of you. I’m afraid I must insist.”

“A little longer?” the youngest whined, and the oldest looked deeply uncomfortable. 

“I don’t think so, little ones. Dettlaff needs to rest.” 

“I am fine,” he said. Regis scoffed, and Cerys noticed Dettlaff look at his feet out of the corner of her eye. 

“Only because you’re sitting down. Head inside, we’ll see to dinner after I’ve deposited these straggling children with their undoubtedly concerned parents.” 

The children groaned and complained, but tore themselves away from the tide pool and said hasty goodbyes to their new friend before running to beat Regis onto the path back to town. All except the oldest, who seemed all too ready to go and headed straight for the path, and Cerys, who stayed behind and offered her hand to Dettlaff again. 

“It was good to meet you,” she said.

Dettlaff held her hand more than shook it, smiled in the same way Regis usually did, and inclined his head as if bowing. As if she was an actual queen. When he let her hand go and looked back at her, she beamed at him. Nobody had ever been so polite to her.

“Come along, child,” Regis said, attempting to be terse but clearly amused. Cerys got up from her perch on a rock and went to join him as he pointed a long finger at Dettlaff. “And _you_ get back inside, or you’ll make yourself sick and undo all of your progress. You can worry about exercising your flawless manners when you aren’t exhausted from a five minute walk.” 

Dettlaff looked unconvinced but stood anyway. He wavered a little when he did and Cerys thought Regis looked ready to run and catch him, but he recovered and then began to walk back to the hut. He held up a hand at Cerys in a final good bye, and she waved back as she started the walk back to town with Regis. 


	3. Skellige II

There were no other vampires on Hindersfjall, and Dettlaff was lonely. 

In a way he knew his relative isolation was good, because it gave him time to find himself. _Ground_ himself, as Regis said. If there had been a pack for him to create he would have fallen back on old habits, but it was just Regis and he had learned nothing but good habits with him, all of which was happy to continue. There was no pack, no bad habits, and so he was using the time much as Regis had the fifty years he spent under the ground; thinking about his interactions with the world around him and putting all of his focus on being better. On living up to Regis’ expectations. Not that Regis said he had any expectations, but Dettlaff knew there were things that would make him happy even if he didn’t say. They were therefor things worth working towards, things that might make Regis forgive him. Forgiveness wasn’t something he was sure he could earn, given the gravity of his crimes, but it was important to try.

So far he’d been doing well, he thought. He’d been using his words - in the common tongue, no less - and wearing his human face and for the most part staying put in bed when he was told to. There was the occasional spike of anger, usually totally out of proportion to the inciting incident in retrospect, but since truly regaining a sense of awareness after his reawakening he had been able to tamp it down. At first it was just because he was so tired he could barely spare the energy, but apparently that had taught him some coping mechanisms - now he was actively thinking through the feeling, step by step. A strange sensation, to suddenly be so aware of how utterly out of control you had been for the previous 400-some years of your life.

His positive progress had not made his loneliness any easier to tolerate. He had spoken to nobody other than Regis and a few birds since waking up, but he was not as gifted at their tongue as his mate and Regis was often gone. Until Cerys and the others had passed by no humans had ventured near the hut; they were the first he’d spoken with since his return to the land of the living. Not so long ago there was a man who had washed up after a storm, so close to death that Regis had admitted he couldn’t be saved, and Dettlaff had fed on him even though he tasted unappealing because it seemed imprudent to waste a precious resource when his options for regeneration were so limited. Regis didn’t drink blood to compensate for what was taken, and so the times he could feed Dettlaff were far less frequent than when Dettlaff had been caring for Regis. He didn’t blame Regis for that, of course, because Regis’ oath was important. He wouldn’t compromise it by asking for more.

He was glad the visitors were children. Children were easy to understand and he liked them on the whole - if all humans were like children he might have always understood them and even sought their company on a regular basis. He particularly liked the directness of the girl named after the queen, the boldness with which she faced her fear of him and the kind touch of her hand. He liked how thrilled she was that he was nice to her.

At the door Dettlaff paused to look at their retreating forms. Regis and Cerys walked side by side, the vampire gesticulating broadly. Lecturing. Possibly on drowners. Maybe about Lofoten. Dettlaff leaned against the door frame and tried to listen but couldn’t make out the words, and so closed his eyes instead. He was unbelievably tired. He knew one day he would not struggle with basic tasks, but it seemed far away at that moment. He could barely hear the shifting tones of Regis’ voice - if a witcher happened by he’d have no problem dispatching him quickly. Even a few humans with torches and pitchforks could tear him apart without much of a fight. A pitiable state.

He gave up, and shuffled back inside.

Hours passed before Regis returned and Dettlaff slept for most of them. He lay face-down in the bed and not even Regis’ entry into the hut woke him. In the past Regis being even half a mile away would have felt so extremely powerful over the bond that he would have felt it practically bursting inside his chest, but now the feeling that passed between them was barely noticeable at five feet apart.  
The subtlety of the bond surprised him when he began to recognize it consciously, and while he suspected that it was the result of his long absence and was happy Regis might have had the space he needed to heal from the pain of the loss, the weakness of it left him feeling a terrible void. As much as it paled in comparison to what it had previously been Dettlaff latched on to it just the same, although he wasn’t sure if Regis even noticed it was there. Regis had never been particularly gifted at manipulating the bond on his own and had a more abstract relationship with it when it was at its full strength. 

His mate entered under the door as a mist, and curled around the bed before he appeared in the human form he seemed to prefer, and seated himself on the edge of the mattress. At the shift on the bed, Dettlaff finally recognized his presence and cracked an eye open. 

“I hope that wasn’t too much for you,” Regis said. His voice was full of caution, and Dettlaff immediately understood that his concerns involved more than how tired he was. 

“It was fine,” he mumbled into the pillow. “I like children.”

“I know.”

“They wanted to show me starfish and urchins very badly.” 

“They did, and they were very excited that you wanted to listen to them. They told me about all the stories they shared. But they also exhausted you, and it’s been a long time since you spoke to anybody else. I am also told that you spent a long time outside before that.”

“I do not appreciate that you have the ravens watch me while you are gone.”

“If I didn’t you’d spend a lot more time doing things that jeopardize your health.”

“You did the same thing when you were recovering.”

“The difference is that you were able to feed me more, Dettlaff. You are considerably weaker than I was at this point, for which I am deeply apologetic but unless you would like me to adjust my behavior there is little that can be done and you must take things slowly.”

Dettlaff said nothing because it was pointless to argue. On another day he might have anyway, regardless of the fact that Regis rarely lost any arguments even when he wasn’t right or when Dettlaff wasn’t tired. He was exhausted, and had been for years, and was exceptionally so right then. He couldn’t even maintain his human face as he lay in bed, which Regis had insisted he wear at all times so their peace wasn’t jeopardized should a villager come calling. Regis patted his shoulder.

“Up you go, or you could stay that way and make it exceptionally awkward for me.”

Dettlaff huffed a little as he rolled over, and he was a little happy to hear Regis laugh at him. It almost took the edge off of the clinical method his mate had adopted when he had Dettlaff feed from him. 

Memories of cradling Regis against his body while he fed were still incredibly vivid. He had never felt so close to another living being, never felt so necessary to someone, never partaken in an act more intimate. That was not remotely the same experience he was having on Skellige, not how it was since he woke from his Undeath. The other vampire sat beside him and braced his arm against Dettlaff’s back to help him stay upright, and extended his other arm so that Dettlaff could hold it to his mouth and sink his teeth into the flesh of his forearm. The distance between them was maintained throughout the act, and he imagined that was how Regis handled his patients. Gentle and caring, but clinical. It hurt, no matter how much he felt it was justified. 

Things between the two of them could be considered in the same way on the whole. _Clinical_. It wasn’t that Regis had been unfriendly or uncaring - it was only that it seemed removed, as if every moment of every day Regis was maintaining a five foot space between them either physically or emotionally. He had been conversational and charming and accommodating, but he had also been unrevealing and he lapsed into silence and spent a lot of time looking sadly out the window. Generally he touched Dettlaff only for what was strictly necessary, and very rarely clasped his shoulder or his hand in a companionable sort of way or when Dettlaff was upset at his progress or the cruelty of the world or the absolute insanity of his past actions or whatever else had put him in dark mood, but it was nothing like what it had been. Dettlaff didn’t understand, and didn’t know how to ask and could only assume Regis was caring for him out of a sense of obligation. While he was still bound to him, Dettlaff couldn’t imagine he could forgive him for what he’d done to the people of Beauclair. What he’d almost done to his Witcher friend, to Regis himself.

Justification aside, it was hard knowing that Regis couldn’t understand unless he said it aloud, whereas before he would just know how much the distance hurt him and could make the choice about what to do himself without an awkward conversation. The bond was too weak for a hurt was so complex, and Dettlaff’s only option was to put Regis in a difficult position; to say ‘I know I don’t deserve forgiveness and you deserve happiness away from me, but but this space between us is killing me’. He couldn’t do that. Wanted to, but couldn’t.

He wanted to curl into Regis’ body after he’d finished feeding, wanted to lick the wound closed and then plaster himself to Regis’ side and press his lips against his neck and inhale as deeply as he could, utter the words _mi clevas neth, my beloved_. He wanted to be held, to feel unconditionally necessary and to feel nails against his scalp and a heart beating slowly under his ear. He wanted Regis to talk to him like he did before, intimate whispers so beautifully phrased they sounded like poetry. Regis was good at that. Once he’d said Dettlaff was more of a poet and that he was closer to a particularly verbose writer of academic papers, but Dettlaff hadn’t agreed. Still didn’t. Listening to Regis talk at length in soft and loving tones was like listening to a song. 

Dettlaff wanted a lot, but Regis closed the wound himself and then stood and turned to start a proper dinner. He was talking about things Dettlaff didn’t particularly care about, rambling in a way that indicated he was talking just to talk, and Dettlaff stayed sitting up in bed watching him. The fire in the hearth turned him into a silhouette, a solid and lithe form, sharp familiar angles casting no shadow. Dettlaff’s tired brain supplied that he should be Regis’ shadow, which was as unhelpful as it was unrealistic. Leaning back against the wall, he listened to Regis talk without hearing the words and thought about how they’d gotten to where they were.

He could not form conscious thought while he was lingering in his limbo state, but in some way it had given him time to process. That last moment at Tesham Mutna came with a glimpse of clarity, as if there was a quiet and clear part of his animal-angry mind that understood Regis was making the only choice he could have because Dettlaff himself was only moments away from making the same one for remarkably less justifiable reasons. Had he killed Regis he would not have been able to live with himself and would have descended into absolute and unending madness. Maybe would have killed himself shortly thereafter. He had not been acting in a way that made sense, and he had lost himself to his heartbreak and self-hatred and left Regis with no choice. In no world would he have imagined being capable of killing Regis or even hurting him, as he loved Regis as he loved his own flesh, but his entire being had been one terrible state of pain and he hated himself deeply, and that sort of hatred consumes until it destroys entirely. He hated himself, and the world, and thus hated Regis just as much. There was only one way it could have been stopped. Only one thing that could have been done.

When he’d first woken up he didn’t truly comprehend these thoughts and had taken some time to pull them back to the front of his mind - the shock of the process had left him confused and he was furious once he understood where he was and what had happened. He had cursed and screamed and even threatened Regis with his frail and shaking voice, processing lingering feelings of fear and irrational betrayal and despair. He was thankful that he had been so exceptionally weak. If he had not been forced to sit with his feelings for that time he might have turned back towards hatred and self-pity and taken it out on Regis, or run off to wreak the same havoc on the world he had been previously engaged in. But he was too weak to do those things, and Regis only sat and listened to him and bore his anger, and held his hand when he devolved into shuddering sobs. He had slept for days after that, and when he woke again had begun the process of understanding.

They hadn’t talked about what happened in Toussaint or in the time between then and when he’d woken up, beyond Regis’ uncharacteristically brief summary of the past hundred or so years and his slightly more detailed account of how Dettlaff had been recovered. The sorceress who had been the Witcher’s lover had preserved the finger of the hand he’d lost in Beauclair, having found it where Regis unsuccessfully cremated it in his crypt. When Regis had decided to revive him, she had gone with Regis to help plea his case to be accepted back into the community, considering Dettlaff was not truly dead - he got the impression that Regis had been expecting, and perhaps hoping, that they would have upheld his punishment regardless and taken over Dettlaff’s revival themselves. But they hadn’t done that; they instead reinstated Regis and for the first few months they’d stayed in Vizima with a mutual friend until Dettlaff was well enough to travel. Hearing this retelling, he had commented on the strange justice of being resurrected from the hand he’d cut off out of mad guilt, the fact that he now had to live and repent as a being composed entirely of the results of his past actions, and Regis had said nothing. He not only never brought up the events of that time again but seemed to ignore any comments Dettlaff made about what happened. He was entirely unwilling to discuss that point in time beyond his initial summaries, and as a result Dettlaff couldn’t tell how Regisd felt about it. Couldn’t tell if he was angry, or hurt, or if he could ever truly forgive him. If he was only there to see to his regeneration and planned to depart after his recovery. Such a motivation would explain his distance, but he didn’t ever look at Dettlaff with fear or judgement which only served to further his confusion. 

His mate had begun dicing vegetables. Dettlaff found he was somehow lying down again and closed his eyes for a moment.

  
_Mate_ was something he had never called Regis out loud, even when things between them were intimate, and he doubted Regis considered that to be the appropriate word but that was what he was. It had been that way to Dettlaff since the other vampire had first knowingly sunk his fangs into his arm, since he had understood that there was now an unbreakable bond between them and had accepted it willingly. Even if Regis never wanted to speak to him again after this, even if he left after Dettlaff recovered fully and never returned, he would consider Regis his mate for the rest of his life. The humans referred to the concept as one of soulmates and destiny, but Dettlaff considered the term utterly lacking.

Dettlaff had had other lovers, both intense romances and casual affairs. His heart had been broken by a dozen other vampires, and one notable human, and he had been betrayed by a dozen more. His heart would likely be broken again, because despite his many years he was blind to most deception and his sense of commitment was extreme even among his own kind. But not by Regis - because Regis was not just a lover, and the term soulmate didn’t explain what he was. Regis was a given, Regis was a constant. When the sun of this terrible planet burned out, it would be Regis who stayed with him until the bitter end, and he belonged to him entirely and considered every part of Regis his own. Even if he departed Dettlaff would hold a piece of him for all recordable time and it would be enough. Syanna’s betrayal had hurt because he had assumed she was honest and that she did not fear him but considered him as a whole being, and in truth she only considered him to be a tool; Regis’ departure would not wound him in the same way. He would not descend into madness, because Regis was a certainty and they would remain a part of each other. When Regis left, Dettlaff would know and understand why. It would make him sad, but he would understand.

There were a few things that turned Dettlaff’s mood towards melancholy immediately, and one of them was worry that Regis never truly understood how he compared to the others. Did Regis realize the uniqueness of his position? They had never talked about it - Dettlaff had no way of knowing. The night he received that terrible ransom note he had hovered by the door and told Regis he’d died for him, and he’d felt the other’s panic and concern, and Regis had asked him what was wrong and had not gotten an answer. Despite knowing better he had chalked it up to Dettlaff’s stormy nature and had taken him in his arms and held him close in their bed and tried to calm him. Dettlaff had fucked him like It was the last time it would happen, which as it turned out had been a valid concern. He had cried when they kissed. And then he left and betrayed Regis by hiding the situation from him and letting his emotion consume him, letting his self-hatred boil to a place where instead of dying for Regis he would have killed him, all because of a human woman - so of course it was possible and even likely that Regis assumed he was less important than Syanna. Dettlaff’s decisions hadn’t been based in importance, only in panic - he had felt torn knowing there was only one way to save a woman he loved deeply and that Regis would be hurt by the actions he would have to take in order to do it, so he had kept quiet and then everything had gone to shit. He wanted to save her without losing Regis, but he had somehow managed to lose both of them.

Dettlaff didn’t blame him. He had allowed his emotions to override his sense, and they had spurred him to a place he couldn’t return from. He had given into them so completely that Regis was barely even an afterthought. It brought him more shame than any of his other crimes.

“Dettlaff?”

Startled, Dettlaff’s eyes snapped open. Regis was back on the edge of the mattress holding what was probably stew and looking at him strangely. Clearing his throat, Dettlaff moved to sit up again and Regis watched, and handed him his dinner silently. For a moment Dettlaff thought he would tell him to put his human face back on. Deep black eyes lingered on his face, searching, studying the aged lines he knew he must have. He remembered how old Regis had looked.

“Shall I read?” he said instead. 

Dettlaff nodded, and Regis fetched a book and sat five feet away on the edge of his own cot, and began to read.

This small piece is enough, Dettlaff thought. They may never return to the place they were at, but this was enough. He finished half of his meal and then let Regis’ voice lull him back to sleep. 


	4. Beauclair II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all - sorry for the delay! I have most of this thing drafted, but since starting my focus shifted to DA:I so I've only been slowly chipping away at finishing this. Such is the way of hyper-fixation. It'll all get posted, though! 
> 
> There will likely be a double update tonight.
> 
> There's some "vampiric" language in here, and it'll continue through the rest of the piece. It's based on some really bastardized Etruscan. Translation provided in the end notes, in order of utterance.

Part of his employment with the university involved giving lectures, which wasn’t exactly a hardship. Regis had always appreciated an audience and a room full of individuals both eager to learn and ready to listen was thrilling. On top of that, Beauclair was a city full of history which meant he’d sometimes even take interested groups out and talk to them as they walked around the town in a sort of hands-on history lesson. Of course, he was equally happy in front of a lectern talking to a massive group of them. Usually massive, anyway - it was a big university and he was generally considered a good lecturer, even if some of his topics were obscure and the lectures themselves often drifted on to scientific topics that were arguably barely related to the more sociological ones he was meant to be speaking on (in his heart he would always be a doctor - you could just only go so long using similar names and engaging in the same practice in such limited circles). There were usually stragglers afterwards and most of them were delightfully inquisitive. There was the occasional painfully needy student seeking reassurance, but he didn’t really mind them either.

Lectures were also one of the only times his phone was ever silenced. On a regular day this wasn’t an issue; very few people called him. Most of his friends texted, and since the bond easily spanned the entire distance of Beauclair if he wanted to use it in such a way Dettlaff tended to only communicate by sending him photos, some of which were accompanied by punctuation if Regis was lucky. Once he had gotten a picture of a butcher’s case at the deli and he had spent five minutes trying to parse out what was happening before a very delayed question mark came through and he realized that Dettlaff was shopping for groceries and asking what he wanted for dinner. He still wasn’t really sure how taking a photo was any easier than typing, but every time he asked Dettlaff just shrugged and made a soft and vaguely apathetic noise, and so he had to accept he would never get an explanation. 

Today was different. When he finished the lecture and after the students had all filed out, he had two missed calls from numbers he didn’t recognize and a voicemail from Dettlaff’s boss asking that he return her call as soon as possible. Immediately an icy and shameful feeling grasped at his heart - Alice would only be calling him if something was very wrong, which meant he had missed something significant. Had he been wrong all this time? Was Beauclair actually too much for Dettlaff? Had he snapped? Let his face slip? Worse yet, hurt somebody? He jabbed at _reply_ so quickly he almost fumbled the phone right onto the tile floor, and started talking right after he heard the other end pick up. He didn’t even give the poor woman a chance to say hello.

“Hello, Alice? Is everything alright?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me. We haven’t seen Dettlaff all week.”

Regis’ brain stalled for a moment. Not only was this the exact opposite of what he had feared, but the implications were a little blindsiding. Dettlaff had risen at the same obscenely early time he always did every morning, put on the same tailored clothing, and Regis had left him drinking coffee at the table as per usual; granted, he’d been staying late to finish up as much work as possible before his assistant took off for two weeks on a trip to Novigrad so he hadn’t been home as much as he usually was, but Dettlaff seemed fine when he got back in the evening. Just sitting calmly on the couch watching nature documentaries in his slacks and undershirt with dinner on the stove. The typical evening. And all of this meant that Dettlaff had purposefully given him the impression that he was going to work when he actually wasn’t, which meant he had lied. To him, of all people. What could be bad enough that Dettlaff would just stop going to work and then lie about it?

“Emiel, are you still there?”

“Oh, yes - yes. Dettlaff has been ill, and I believe he’s spent most of the week sleeping. I’m so sorry, Alice, I had assumed he’d called in. Or at the very least returned your messages, which you’ve doubtlessly left for him. He must be considerably more tired than I assumed.” 

“I’m glad he’s alright. This seemed very unlike him, so we were assuming something awful had happened,” Alice said, sounding clearly relieved. She was a sweet woman. It probably helped that she had capable staff to cover him. Still, Dettlaff was likely pushing his luck with her whether she showed it or not. 

He finished up his conversation quickly and politely, wishing Alice a good day and asking if she needed him to tell Dettlaff anything, half-running down the hall as he talked. There was clearly something massively wrong and he wanted to get home as soon as possible, preferably when Dettlaff didn’t expect him to be there so he couldn’t make excuses or avoid questions. It was one of the few times he wished he could travel in a more vampiric manner, although he moved quickly enough that he’d hung up by the time he reached his office and startled no small number of faculty and students alike as he barreled down the hall. His assistant made a noise of alarm as he tore into the office, and he spared her a hurried explanation as he tucked his computer and papers into his briefcase, babbling that he had to go home and would be back next week, apologizing for his sudden departure before grabbing his bag, forgetting his coat, and shooting out the door. 

The rain slammed into his skin as he ran down the street. It was crowded, as it was right at the start of Toussaint’s strictly observed mid-day break, and a number of people tried to stop him to chat as he ran. He offered them only hurried apologies as he breezed past. A number of people also failed to notice him approaching, and he had to execute quite dexterous footwork to avoid several collisions. He again found that it was a struggle not to simply shift into shadow to avoid the delay.

Regis even went so far as to catch a bus, which he had only taken twice since starting the job because the walk was beautiful and he preferred to take his time and chat with the regular morning crowd. He even briefly considered a taxi but determined it would take too long to arrive. As he first got on the bus his hope had been that he’d calm down a little on the trip, as the most likely explanation was that Dettlaff was in the middle of some kind of depressive episode that he didn’t want to tell him about and not that he’d been lulled into a false sense of security when truly Dettlaff was on the verge of a massive breakdown, but the anxiety of being on a vehicle he had no control over which was frequently stopping on the way to a place he desperately wanted to get to faster was too much and created the opposite effect. He spent most of the ride bouncing his heel on the floor, shifting around in his seat preparing to leap up as soon as they got to the stop. Which he did, and then he sprang out the door and bolted the rest of the way to the building, through the waiting area, and up the narrow stairway to the apartment. The sense of urgency never faded, and he barely thought about it as he simply shifted through the door. He could worry about explaining things to the neighbors later if they happened to see.

The apartment was calm and empty, filled only with cold light and the sound of rain against the ancient windows. There was a dripping noise somewhere, a leak he’d alerted the landlord about but couldn’t actually find. Their odd assortment of furniture looked untouched and gave the impression that it was only a photograph of a room - the door to the bedroom was half-open, and it was dark inside. Regis could hear Dettlaff’s heartbeat, a steady tempo under the chaotic patter of the rain. After he took a moment to calm himself, he dropped his things on the floor by the table, shed his wet shirt and shoes, and went into the bedroom. 

Belly-down in bed and facing the far wall, Dettlaff seemed calm enough to be sleeping. He was dressed in the clothes that Regis had seen him in that morning and of course wasn’t sleeping at all, but he was doing a very good job pretending. He didn’t indicate he noticed anything, but as Regis crossed the room and quietly opened the curtain to let a little light in he got a very strong sense of Dettlaff’s shame at being discovered and then an even stronger wave of something else that smacked strongly of him deciding he was too tired to care. Relief was not quite the right word for what Regis felt as he doubled back and crawled into bed behind him. He wasn’t completely and utterly losing his mind with melancholy and devolving into some terrible beast, but this certainly wasn’t good either. Dettlaff didn’t move as he pressed up behind him, mouth to the back of his neck and arm around his waist. Just stayed breathing slowly, body loose, listening to the rain.

Eventually, he sighed and spoke. 

“What are you doing at home?”

“Alice called me,” Regis said, keeping his voice calm and quiet.

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were so sick you must have slept through any reasonable time to call in and lacked the energy to return her calls. Which I do not believe is a lie, given the circumstance in which we find ourselves now.” He kissed the back of Dettlaff’s neck. 

Dettlaff didn’t say anything back. He also didn’t raise his hand to grasp Regis’, or acknowledge the kiss. Didn’t do anything. 

In the past few months Dettlaff had seen two different therapists, which was at least progress even if they hadn’t lasted very long. Regis suspected that he'd gotten frustrated having to pretend he was something he was not, or more that they had recommended medication. This, of course, wasn’t exactly possible without seeing a doctor who would know how to handle Dettlaff’s unique physiology - a thing he definitely had access to. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider it an option. He’d grown a lot since the last time they were in Beauclair; he had even grown to like humans. But he’d also grown reasonably suspicious of their motivations and not even Regis vouching on their behalf would help if he got it into his head that they were up to something. Syanna had taught him so much, and Regis regretted that one of those things was doubt and fear. 

Regis had been depressed before and still suffered from bouts of it. He spent several hundred hears forming what his doctor friend referred to as ‘unhealthy neural pathways’ as the result of decades of sad circumstance and poor life choices. His depression always had a cause, though - guilt over past actions, melancholy over dead friends, over the countless number of humans who had died in his arms. More frequently than he liked to admit it was also spurred by shame over the fact that he still had the urge to drink regularly - that he looked at innocent people like they were a meal. The medication they had determined would best interact with his body after hundreds of tests and a few false starts had been helpful as he taught himself better coping mechanisms, and now that he was off it he rarely felt that his sadness was on the verge of consuming him; it was there, but manageable. He hadn’t felt overly tired for years.

He liked to think that he understood melancholy, but Dettlaff’s moods weren’t something he could wrap his head around at all. They came out of nowhere, unprompted, seemingly having nothing to do with where they were or what they were doing or anything else. It was an echo of his past moodiness, less violent but somehow more extreme. He was more of a danger to himself than anybody else.

Seeing Dettlaff struggle and not knowing what to do about it was painful. 

“Tell me how to help you,” Regis whispered, without inflection. He hoped Dettlaff heard it for the plea it was.

“I do not know.”

“Then please, go see the doctor. For me.”

“Regis-“

“You don’t have to give her anything or tell her information she doesn’t already know. She won’t take blood or run tests, she’ll only listen to what you have to say and then find you something, anything, to help you. You are miserable and I am out of options - and you’ve grown so adept at hiding it from me that I can’t see it half the time. Almost an entire week, Dettlaff. You gave me the impression you were going to work for almost an _entire week_ , and I didn’t have the slightest inkling that you weren’t. Surely you must see how distressing this is. We haven’t had anything to hide from each other for centuries.” 

Dettlaff shifted slightly and put his hand over Regis’. “I do not know what to tell you.”

“Don’t tell me anything - just try telling the doctor. If your suspicions are justified we’ll pick up and move again. We can go back to the island and disappear for a few decades.”

His partner rolled over to face him, and settled in to look at him eye to eye, studying him as he studied Dettlaff. There were lines on his face now, grey in his hair, neither of which would disappear. He knew he was in a similar state, himself, but since Stygga there’d always been some grey in his hair and he doubted it had the same visual impact as Dettlaff’s. It was strange to see true age on him, especially after seeing him as young-looking and healthy as possible for a vampire of his age when they left Skellige so many years age, all jet black hair and barely lined cheeks. The lines on him now weren’t the mark of death or weakness, but the first stages of becoming something greater. Something ancient. Dettlaff wore it well, too; it made his eyes somehow more piercing, his face so handsome it would have previously seemed impossible. Not tired, as it had seemed the last time they were in Beauclair or when he'd been recovering in Skellige, but rugged. 

The way Dettlaff looked at him gave Regis the impression he was searching for an answer to something. Some sort of lifeline, which Regis had often provided - but he didn’t have any solutions now. Instead he offered a small smile and reached out to run his thumb over Dettlaff’s cheek. The other man closed his eyes slowly and sighed before moving closer, entangling their limbs and tucking his face against his neck. When he spoke it was muffled and quiet.

“I will try.”

“Graśisi, clevas neth,” Regis whispered. 

He hadn’t used his own tongue in some time; it felt almost painfully intimate. Common had become his preference by force of habit and he spoke to so few higher vampires that the language had become some private thing between him and his partner. Dettlaff apparently agreed, as he bared his teeth gently against Regis’ pulse and dug the tips of his nails into his hip. 

Dettlaff turned to physical intimacy at the drop of a hat. Always had. Regis had always associated it with his rather straight-forward nature. Even with the bond his favorite displays of comfort and affection were through touch. The first thing he turned to when he was upset were physical distractions, and Regis had learned to tell what he would want by his moods - often it was sweet and comforting, but today would be just bordering on aggressive and he’d likely end up on his belly with Dettlaff’s teeth latched onto the upper region of his trapezius. Regis didn’t really mind, as he enjoyed most physical indulgences and he was pleased he could help in some quantitative way.

So, this was better. Regis knew what to do with this, knew what would distract him. He’d had practice with this. It was intimacy borne out of some painful sadness, but a distraction nonetheless

“Permti mal-thi, Dettlaff.” 

Dettlaff growled low in his throat and let his human face slip, pushing on Regis’ shoulder until he rolled onto his back and then moving gracefully to straddle his hips. Grasping his thighs and then dragging his hands up to his waist, Regis lifted up the hem of his sweater and ran his thumbs over the deep blue veins across his hips. Dettlaff was pleasing to look at in a more human form, but he was stunning like this; every inch of him was full of power and grace. He was running his fingers over Regis’ jaw and sideburns, tender. Apologetic. Regis frowned.

“I didn’t say any of that to make you feel guilty,” he said. 

“You did not make me feel anything I was not already feeling.”

“Dettlaff, you shouldn’t feel guilty for anything. You know that, don’t you? Not this week, not-”

“Yes, yes. Stop talking.”

“It’s important that you don’t-“

“Regis. Silence.”

He made a show of purposefully shutting his mouth, and Dettlaff leaned down to kiss him. 

“M’thi luperi,” he rumbled, and Regis echoed the sentiment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you, darling."
> 
> "Let me see you, Dettlaff."
> 
> "I would die for you."


	5. Skellige III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update day! Chapters 4 and 5 posted. See chapter 4 for status notes.

“What are you doing all the way out there!?”

Cerys was fifteen and stood barefoot on a large rock shouting out over the waves. Far away from shore, Dettlaff’s pale face and broad shoulders emerged from the water and he shook his hair out of his eyes. Instead of answering her calls he dove back under. She only saw a pale blur through the water as he swam towards the shore and she didn’t even question his speed, just like she had never questioned that he appeared to be getting not just healthier over the course of his recovery, but younger. It was none of her business, even if she had suspicions. Ultimately Dettlaff had been terribly kind and nothing he may or may not have been would change that, and so she didn’t much care about what his secrets were. Regis fawned over him, anyway. She didn’t expect that Regis would fawn over anybody who wasn’t a quality person.

When he emerged from the water he was close to the rocks and tossed his hair back again before making his way up the beach. He was holding a salmon half the size of Cerys herself, and spoke without looking at her as he passed. 

“I have been fishing.”

“How’d you catch that?” Cerys balked, and then jumped off the rock and ran to catch up with him. 

“With my hands.”

She made a noise of disgust, because Dettlaff always answered literally and she suspected he did it on purpose sometimes just to frustrate her. He probably did it to Regis too. Cerys knew the exact face he’d make if he were in her place. “Yeah, but how?” 

Dettlaff mulled over his words and then settled on what he wanted. “With patience, and by becoming very good at holding my breath.” 

Narrowing her eyes, she walked beside him up towards the hut, and he looked at her sideways. 

“I know you’re not lying,” she said, “but you are full of utter shite.”

Dettlaff chuckled. 

The knife he gutted the fish with was razor sharp and he used it with such precision that had Cerys not witnessed it before it would unsettle her. He had the fish gutted, flayed, and deboned in a matter of minutes, and silently prepared it to be placed in the small smokehouse her brother had recently helped them build in exchange for a batch of Regis’ moonshine. Watching him work, Cerys wondered if he’d ever tried to use his nails for the task. They were certainly sharp enough. Regis wore his the same way, and she wondered if that was some strange trend from the mainland. She couldn’t imagine how it was, though - Dettlaff had said he was from Nazair, and his accent was very different from Regis’ so they could not be from the same place. 

“Would you teach me to catch fish like that?”

“No. You are too small. The current would sweep you out to sea.” 

“I’m a very strong swimmer.”

“The current will not care if you are a strong swimmer. Especially if are also very small.”

“Listen, I’m small for now, but you could teach me later. When I’m big and strong. Just have to hit my second growth spurt.” Cerys grinned and held her arms out and flexed, showing off her biceps like the men in town when they were drunk.

Dettlaff looked up, obviously missing that she was joking as he appeared unsure about what he was going to say. His brow furrowed, the corners of his lips shifted, and he quickly looked back down to finish preparing the salmon. “Perhaps.”

“Augh. Regis is right, you are an awful liar.” Cerys groaned and rolled her eyes dramatically. 

“He has told you that?”

Cerys scoffed. “And just about everything else. I bet I know all there is to know about you, along with everybody Regis has ever spoken to ever. He goes on and on and on about you. Oh, don’t seem so surprised! He’s the only reason people know you’ve got a personality. If it wasn’t for him they’d just think you were a tall, dark and handsome murderer hiding out here and trading fur out of sheer necessity.”

Dettlaff gathered the strips of fish, and Cerys jumped up to open the smokehouse door for him. It still smelt strongly of cedar. 

“You will forgive my lack of awareness. Our friendship has been very different from what it was before my illness. I was unsure if he still found my company pleasant enough to speak of.”

Cerys barked a laugh. “The man’s spent years nursing you back from the brink of death, fool. If we didn’t know who you were we’d assume he was talkin’ about his wife. Believe me, he finds you plenty pleasant.”

She received nothing but silence in return. Dettlaff busied himself evenly distributing the meat and she knew she wouldn’t be getting a response, so she sighed heavily and leaned into it. 

“So when are you getting married? You’ll have me there at the wedding, won’t you?”

At this, Dettlaff straightened and glowered at her. There was no heat behind it, and even if there was she’d be grinning anyway. 

“Oh, stop your huffing. Listen, what are you doing today? Will you take a boat out with me?”

“Can your brother not accompany you?”

“Probably, but I don’t want him to. I want you to. You’re much better company, and there don’t ever seem to be any sirens when you go with me. Bloody great annoyance, they are. And I can pretend you’re my husband and all the drunks will leave me be. It’s a win-win.”

“That implies both parties win.”

“You get the victory of spending time with me.”

“Will you speak the whole time?”

“Obviously, but not as much as Regis does. Like I said, win-win.”

Dettlaff made a noise of consideration and then stood back so she could close the door, and he checked it to make sure it was closed tight against animals before heading into the hut. “I have to go to town, so perhaps I will join you after my business is concluded.”

“Excellent,” Cerys grinned, and followed him inside. “That way you can tell your husband not to worry about you before you disappear for a day.”

Cerys liked the inside of the hut, and she was sure Regis was primarily responsible for the state of it. There were two beds, one almost always unmade, and the shelves on the wall were packed to the brim with stacks of books and specimen jars - she’d examined it all hundreds of times, but she enjoyed it all the same. The table in the corner, crammed next to the fireplace, was littered with herbs and brews and all the evidence of Regis’ profession, and the space next to the bed was occupied by what Dettlaff had called an easel and a box that contained all of the charcoal and pigment Regis ordered. He’d only shown her a few drawings, mostly because she’d interrupted him while he was making them, and to fight the temptation of prying she usually spent her time around the barber-surgeon’s station. Cerys would have been drawn to Regis’ table anyway. She liked the smells, and ran her hands over dried herbs, keeping her back to Dettlaff as he changed into dry clothes. 

“I was thinking I’d go to Kaer Trolde. You could stop at the herbalist, pick up some things that don’t grow in the garden here too well. What’s he use in that brew?”

“Mandrake and belladonna.”

“Mandrake, that was it. I bet they’ve got mandrake on the big island, huh?”

“That is where he obtained the last batch, I believe.”

“Mandrake. Of all the things. No wonder it buggered everybody for the whole afternoon.”

“It is very strong.”

“Does it really look like a little person?”

“Some say so. However, not one I have ever seen. Perhaps more like a botchling.” 

“A what?”

“An grotesque spirit that looks slightly like a child.”

“What does it do?”

“Preys on pregnant women and kills them in their sleep. It is what happens when stillborn children are not given proper burial rites.”

“Charming.”

“No.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

She heard the drop of boots on the ground behind her, and turned around. Dettlaff was pulling furs and skins out from under the bed, rolling up the smaller ones into a bag, and then rolling the larger ones together to haul over his shoulder. Cerys went to help him, whistling low. 

“You’re really good at hunting.”

“Yes.”

“Can you teach me how to do _this_?”

“Your father can teach you.”

“I’ll have you know that I love my father, but he’s not this good and even he would prefer that you teach me. Unless you have the same mystery reason for not teaching me to hunt as you do about fishing.” 

“I believe you may actually talk more than Regis.”

“You’ll have to tell him, we’ve been in competition. Completely unspoken, obviously, but I know he knows. We’re neck and neck, it’ll make him sweat to hear that.” 

Dettlaff laughed quietly, and then stood and lifted the larger skins over his shoulder and easily hoisted the other bag up. She stared at him pointedly until he handed the bag to her and let her help, and then struggled not to reveal how unexpectedly heavy it was.

Dettlaff appeared to hunt everything. Bear, deer, rabbits, monsters - everything he could manage. He brought the skins to town himself occasionally, although it all mostly came with Regis. Dettlaff was on his own this week, though. Cerys knew that Regis had spent most of the past week in town to monitor the large number of people stricken by some sort of illness and the two pregnant women both on the verge of giving birth. When she'd found Regis eating dinner at the longhouse and asked him why he wasn’t babysitting, he had laughed and told her in a situation like this it was better for him to be around rather than waste precious time running back and forth, and that Dettlaff was more than capable of looking after himself. She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but he was at least capable of bringing his goods into town.

Contrary to her prior claims to be the usurper to Regis’ title of Most Verbose Creature on the Island, she and Dettlaff spent most of the walk in silence. She would stop occasionally to point out a whale breaching the water or some other point of interest, and he’d stop and watch with the same quiet interest he did everything else she showed to him. Cerys liked that about him - he had an air about him that gave the impression that he had seen everything, but he was always curious anyway, and he was often curious in a calm and almost innocent way that made her proud to show him anything she could find. She liked that he was quiet and strong and painfully honest, and she particularly liked how much Regis liked that, too. They were sweet, she thought. Other people in town had long since stopped talking about how much Regis seemed to adore his friend, especially since he’d taken up with that priestess, but Cerys still saw it. Regis still talked about Dettlaff like they were married, and sitting with the realization that Dettlaff was surprised about that made her sad. 

“How are you friends? You and Regis, I mean. How did you meet.”

“We have known each other since we were very young, although we were not truly friends until later. I saved him, once, and now he is doing the same for me.” 

“Aw, now that’s sweet - what did you save him from?”

“He suffered extreme injury defending his friends, and I found him and nursed him back to health. Similarly he has saved me from the same thing, only my injuries were sustained making decisions which I regret deeply.”

Cerys frowned. “What happened?”

“I would… prefer not to speak of them. My actions were shameful and hurt many, and I did not stop until Regis intervened. I would like very much if your view of me was based upon the man I am now.” 

She swallowed a lump in her throat and decided not to push Dettlaff to come clean about what he’d done. She didn’t really want to know - like all of his other secrets, his past actions wouldn’t change how he’d been treating her. No matter how creepy it sounded like they might be. If he wanted to turn a new leaf, he deserved to do that. Instead she put her focus back on the situation at hand. 

“Is that why you think he’s mad at you? What you did?” 

“Yes. I am trying to be a better person so that he might forgive me, eventually, but he will not speak to me about it which makes it… difficult.” 

“He’s not that mad, for what it’s worth. I wouldn’t be surprised if Solveig kicks him out of bed for how much he talks about you.” 

“I hope she does not. He deserves company,” Dettlaff huffed a laugh, and Cerys shifted her bag. The laugh was too sad for her to feel any better. 

“Yeah, well, I hope he gets over whatever it is you did. You seem like a perfectly good person to me.”

Dettlaff stayed quiet for a few moments. “Thank you, Cerys.”

“And you know I’m not bullshitting you, because you know how I feel about bullshite.”

“I am aware, yes.”

“And you know none of us care, don’t you? If you and Regis aren’t - if you’re close. We wouldn’t care. If you were.” 

Dettlaff made a noise of consideration. “You seem very certain.”

“I am. I know I feel that way, and they’d feel the same. Maybe not because they like you as much as I do, but they definitely like Regis, and that gets you a lot of leeway.”

“He is considerably more likable.”

Cerys grinned up at him, and was happy to see him smiling his tight-lipped small smile back at her. 


	6. Skellige IV

Looking back on the day decades later, Dettlaff distinctly remembered feeling guilty for his selfishness as he watched Regis sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at his bloodied hands. The selfish feeling he’d been struck with immediately was loss, because he could see that Regis was clearly profoundly upset but couldn’t feel it. Once he would have felt that pain too, shouldered some of it himself, held his mate close and comforted him with the knowledge that he understood like no other could. Now he hung back in the doorway and felt nothing beyond himself, the scent of blood thick in the air and the room still. Regis didn’t look up at him, but didn’t seem surprised when Dettlaff sat beside him.

  
“They think it’s a curse,” he said, voice even and detached as he stared unblinking at his hands. “I haven’t the heart to tell them it isn’t. It’s so much easier to handle these things when you think you have control - after all, what is one meant to do about exceptionally bad timing? Better to have a curse, I think.”

“I do not agree, but what either of us might say means little. They are grieving and will not listen.”

“That is certainly true. And who would expect them to? So much pain in such a short time. Oh, Dettlaff, they’re so… fragile,” he said, finishing softly, defeated. The corners of his lips tugged downwards and his brow furrowed. “Silly of me. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? Perhaps I was once and I’m just out of practice. The last few hundred years I really hadn’t - beyond common decency, the sympathy one affords all creatures, of course - but I really hadn’t…” 

Regis faltered. His eyes began to water. 

“You had not tried making them pack,” Dettlaff offered. Regis exhaled a sound that might have been a laugh but wasn’t. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s it.” 

Dettlaff spared a look behind them, where the human woman lay with the covers drawn up above her face. He did not know where they had taken the dead child. Probably where they’d taken the other dead child and perhaps the other dead woman. While Dettlaff didn’t agree that it was helpful for the villagers to believe they were cursed, he couldn’t say he blamed them for making that assumption. The only two pregnant women in the village giving birth and subsequently dying on the same day, while half the village elders and a few ill-fated children were quarantined with some unknown respiratory illness in the temple, was certainly an unfortunate turn of fate. 

Humans did not feel like his kind did, but Dettlaff knew the sound of loss when he heard it and did not envy the ones making it, vampire or otherwise. He had heard the cries of mourners well before he and Cerys had reached the town, although he’d taken a while to realize what the sound meant. When he had, he’d kept his tone even and calm and waited to see what Cerys’ reaction would be. 

The girl wanted so badly to be brave. As they drew near and she was able to tell something was wrong, he heard her heartbeat quicken, felt her tense and swallow, and she’d looked up at him with a desperate need for reassurance he had seen on so many young inhuman faces. He had taken his bag from her, put his hand on the back of her neck and told her to remain calm, and go to be with her people. She had done so without argument, although he thought maybe some hesitation as she pulled away from him and ran towards the crowded main street to find her family. 

Dettlaff had heard his name called almost immediately, and he set his furs and skins down and moved into the crowd himself. The one who had called it was Solveig, the priestess with whom Regis had taken up, and she was wrapped around a sobbing man who Dettlaff recognized. Ulric. The man fished, like most of the other men in town, and his wife’s name was Astrid, and she had been pregnant. Ulric was on his knees on the ground, helpless in his sorrow and oblivious to the priestess holding him, and Dettlaff felt a pang of sympathy. 

“Regis is inside,” Solveig said, looking up at him. “He needs to go home, Dettlaff.” 

“He will not want to go.” 

“Make him, then,” she said. “He hasn’t slept for days, let alone eaten, and he’s a mess. This is the second child this morning, just - please. He’ll listen to you.”   
There had been a spark of anger which he felt deep in his chest, anger that these humans were abusing Regis in this manner and taking advantage of his kindness, but logically he knew that wasn’t how it had happened. They couldn’t have stopped Regis if they’d wanted to, and Solveig’s voice clearly implied that they had tried. So he beat the anger back and promised Solveig he’d try, and then he’d gone inside the home that was the epicenter of it all and from which grief rippled out like a wave. He did not spare his condolences to the Skelligers. They were oblivious to him, or perhaps like the priestess felt it important that he ensure their doctor’s health and let him go about his business. He had thought as he walked, though, that he might like to help see them through their mourning. He certainly wanted to help Cerys. 

When Dettlaff looked away from the body he found Regis’ coal-dark eyes looking at him, large and shining and totally exhausted. He looked smaller than normal without his tailcoat, with his gloves and bags and belt of herbs missing and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It took almost no effort to get him to follow - Dettlaff simply stood and offered a hand, which Regis took. He held on tightly to Dettlaff’s fingers for a moment after standing, and then nodded to himself and went for the door. Dettlaff followed at his heels like a dog. 

It was easier than he expected to slip past unnoticed - the humans had moved away from the house or were so preoccupied with their grief that they were oblivious to most things. It appeared that Solveig had managed to get Ulric to his feet and move him elsewhere, and Cerys was nowhere to be seen. He and Regis simply walked away, slipped out of sight of the main thoroughfare by means of a path concealed by greenery which lead down towards the water. This trail was rockier, a longer walk, but Dettlaff thought that was probably what Regis wanted. 

He stayed behind Regis, silent, waiting to see if words were even needed. It was hard to know what to do without the bond to inform him, and while Regis hadn’t changed that much there was a part of him now that Dettlaff was unfamiliar with. It went beyond the way in which he clearly held himself at arms reach because of Dettlaff’s past transgressions - there was a part of Regis now that was simply gone, a part of him that looked into the middle space in silence like those muddied and disheveled humans who sat on the sides of the road after the Black Ones had destroyed everything. It was not merely sadness, but an absence borne of loss. Dettlaff didn’t know what to do with it, and so he waited for Regis to tell him while knowing that he never would. 

The urge to reach out his hand and put it on Regis’ shoulders was overwhelming, but he was temporarily distracted by the shifting winds. Walking downwind of Regis, the smell of gore had been so constant he had stopped noticing it. Now the wind had shifted, and Regis must have caught scent of it because he stopped as if struck and stared back down at his hands. Not for the first time, Dettlaff wondered at Regis’ commitment to sobriety. 

Regis walked into the ocean without removing any of his clothing. Dettlaff watched as he stopped when the water hit just above his waist and after a few moments let himself sink under the surface; he sat back on a boulder, folded his hands in his lap, and waited. He thought about Regis’ bare hands, about what it must have felt like as he handled not one but two dead infant humans, warm only from the heat of their mothers’ bodies. Their palms were so sensitive - even the smallest brush against bare skin could be overwhelming and he had seen Regis bare-handed only during moments of intimacy, once or twice to feel the grass under his hands as he healed. He couldn’t put a name on what he thought Regis must have felt like, but it bothered him; he imagined him feeling a sickening disbelief, raw sorrow… and, doubtlessly, shame. 

His mate resurfaced after several minutes, wiping his hair out of his face and scrubbing at his shirt sleeves almost frantically. Pointlessly. He kept doing it so long that Dettlaff considered going into the water to fetch him, but ultimately he stilled, tensed, and let his arms fall - stood a few more moments looking at the water, and then turned and walked back to the shore. He did not meet Dettlaff’s eyes, but walked straight towards him anyway looking determined not to have any feelings ever again. Dettlaff stood and waited for him, taking off his coat as he drew near. When he reached him, he put his coat around Regis’ shoulders and drew it tight by the lapels, waiting until the other man raised his hands and held the coat shut himself. Regis still wasn’t looking at him - he looked at a spot on his shoulder, brow growing increasingly tense. Dettlaff stood in silence for a moment of indecision before deciding to trust his gut impulse.   
“If they need you, they will come and get you. If you do not sleep you will not be any good to them.”

Regis clenched his jaw and then nodded, and drew the coat more tightly around himself before turning and continuing the walk back to their home. 

He began cooking for Regis almost immediately upon arriving, leaving his mate too remove the coat and lay it over Dettlaff’s cot and then sit, still wet, on the edge of his own bed. He sat for some time stooped forward with his elbows on his knees, at least as long as it took for Dettlaff to get water boiling, before he stood and started peeling his salt-stiff clothing off. 

“Dandelion was the last one, I think,” he said abruptly, and Dettlaff looked over his shoulder to see him stepping into dry trousers. Regis would not normally sleep in trousers - he is preparing himself to run back to town at a moment’s notice, Dettlaff thinks. 

“The last of your humans to die?” he asked, turning his attention back to the root vegetables he was cutting.

“Yes. He died an old man. Happy and terribly verbose right up until the end. Still… it pained me greatly.”

“Did your witcher not pass later?”

“He did, but I don’t think I could rightly call Geralt human. Perhaps more human than you and I, but still. I had considerably more time with him. It hurt, of course, but it wasn’t a matter of his fragility, or how desperately short their time is; I shall miss him perhaps more than any other no longer with us but his loss was different. No, Dandelion was the last human.” 

“I would have thought you’d have found more to call your own.”

“I couldn’t stay put long enough to do so. I was pursued constantly as a result of my transgression against you. But even if I had, I… Geralt’s hansa was the first time I had found that feeling with humans. It is difficult to bond with them when you can’t truly be accepted by them. Eventually they learn what you are, and are afraid. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t manage it. I have long wondered if I made a mistake by abandoning my own kind for preference of theirs. I will never be human and can never be known by them without invoking their fear and disdain, and yet in my effort to be a part of their world I have lost the ability to fit in among my own kind. It often feels as if I will be alone forever, watching these fragile creatures suffer from a great distance. I’ve your company for now, at least.”  
Dettlaff felt his stomach turn, and he set down his work to turn and look at his companion properly. Regis was leaning against the edge of their table, frowning at the ground. It occurred to him suddenly that Regis might not be holding him at arm’s length because he was angry with him, but because he thought he had wronged Dettlaff. It would be very much like Regis to assume he was the one at fault. Dettlaff turned away from the counter and moved the short distance towards him, putting his hand on his shoulder. 

“You will have my company for as long as you will allow it.”

“There is such a capacity for goodness in you,” Regis huffed a laugh and shook his head before looking up at him, expression now tinged with regret. “I’m sorry, my dear Dettlaff. I should not have doubted you. I should have tried harder to help.”

He wasn’t sure how to argue with him, to make him see reason and understand that it was he who was truly to blame, but it also didn’t seem the time. He thought of Regis’ unwillingness to correct the villagers’ notion about a curse, and instead just pulled his mate towards him and held him. It was the closest they’d been for anything but practical reasons since Dettlaff had truly woken and his body felt fully alive at every point of contact. It made him hold on tighter, fold around Regis as he gripped at his waist and tucked his face against Dettlaff’s neck. 

“I have never blamed you,” he said quietly, and felt Regis’ fingers dig into his hip in response. After a moment, he lifted a hand to brush through Regis’ hair and cup the back of his neck. “You will sleep, and I will wake you to eat, and then you will go back to bed. Tomorrow, I will go with you to town and assist in any way I can, and after we have helped we will speak further on this subject.”

Regis nodded, and seemed to pull him closer for a few moments before he released him entirely and turned to walk back to his cot. He lay on it facing the wall, and Dettlaff watched him for a little longer.

Nobody came on the next day, and Regis showed no sign of waking so Dettlaff didn’t disturb him. He had woken up, himself, well past when he normally did, sitting up against the wall with Time of the Moon in his lap. Based on the page, it seemed he’d fallen asleep reading to Regis mid-poem, although likely well after the other closed his eyes. Regis, who was pressed close to the edge of his cot with his head nearly on Dettlaff’s shoulder. The space where the bond had been throbbed, like it was trying to reach out for a connection that wasn’t there. Knowing that Regis had only been distant because of his own misplaced guilt, Dettlaff thought that if it was possible for it to be there it would have revived already. It must have been damaged beyond repair by his death. 

He had gently repositioned Regis on the cot so he wasn’t hanging off the side, cleaned up the mess he’d left on the counter, and spent the rest of the day outside. He swam, sat naked on the rocks and listened for any ill-tidings from the ravens. There were none, and while he heard Regis moving about several times throughout the day he did not emerge from the hut. At sunset he returned and found Regis asleep on his belly. After a few more hours awake sketching idly, Dettlaff slept again. 

The scratching at the door came in the early hours of the morning. Dettlaff heard it first, being the lightest sleeper of the two of them, but Regis was awake soon after and dragging his hands over his tired face, mumbling ‘raven’. When Dettlaff opened the door, a bird leapt up into the air and fluttered over to Regis, where it landed and began speaking in his ear. Regis’ brow furrowed severely, but he looked more confused than upset. 

“Something is happening,” Regis said. “A commotion. He doesn’t know why.”

“We will find out,” Dettlaff said, setting about dressing himself. Regis thanked the bird and hurried to do the same. 

They moved on the wind, mist and shadow in the early morning light alongside the raven until they were near the village. Regis stepped out of that form first, not so much as missing a step as he broke into a half-jog. Dettlaff could hear the sound of voices already, although the tone was different than the last time he was in town. There were mourners, but there was also anger, panic. 

“Somebody has done something foolish,” he said. 

“It certainly sounds that way,” Regis agreed.

The Skelligers were clustered at the docks, arguing amongst themselves, and from what Dettlaff could tell they were broken up into two main parties. As he and Regis reached the top of the steps leading down, he saw Cerys’ mother there on the side of those gesticulating angrily at priestesses and several others. He did not see Cerys. He did not see any of Cerys’ friends, or many of the young men in town, and he smelled fear. Beside him, Regis was taking in as much of the scene as he could, growing increasingly concerned. Dettlaff walked down the steps until he found himself behind the innkeeper, Frach de Barra. 

“What has happened?”

De Barra jumped, spinning around. “By the gods, man, do your feet nae touch the ground when ye walk?”

“What has happened?” He repeated. He felt Regis walking down the steps just behind him.

“Youthful idiocy.”

In front of them, tension exploded. Cerys’ mother shouldered her way to the front of the conflict and began to shout, pointing angrily at the priestesses. 

“This is your doing! What did you think would happen, going on like you were?”

Regis stepped forward, moving past onlookers and combatants alike and positioning himself between the two groups with his hands raised. “Please, whatever has happened, this behavior does us no good.”

“If only you’d been here yesterday,” she cried, choking on a sob. “You could have talked some sense into these fools before they sent half our children off to die.”

“Bridgit, nobody’s going to die - they know the waters well,” Solveig said, drawing immediate ire from the high priestess beside her. 

Bridgit exploded again, turning renewed anger at her. “Aye? Where would you go to end a curse wrought upon us by angry beasts? Ard Skellige? Or would you depart for a barren island where such a beast would live still? They are children - the have seen no battle, no conflict - most haven’t held a weapon except to hunt or defend a boat from a siren, and you stand here to tell me they’ll be fine? You didn’t stop to think before you stopped just praying and and started talking like we could do anything about what’s happened, like it isn’t just ill fortune.”

“How many have gone?” Regis asked, moving to place a comforting hand on Bridgit’s shoulder. Bridget clenched her jaw and eventually tore her eyes away from Solveig and up at Regis instead.

“Practically all of them between the ages of ten and twenty,” Bridgit said, voice full of grief stricken anger. “They took nearly all the boats, left behind but two.”  
“When did they go?”

“We’ve no idea. They met sometime in the night and made up their minds, set off for gods know where with my fool child likely at the head. Those who can went in search but their hopes rest on luck alone, and with only the two boats to search I don’t know how good their chances are.”

Regis, Dettlaff thought, must have known what he was thinking long before Dettlaff himself realized it. The look Regis gave him at that moment was a wide-eyed one of impulsive fear, as if warning him not to do what he was thinking of doing. He didn’t recognize the look for what it was, really, because Dettlaff was not thinking logically, and he hadn’t quite made up his mind about what he was going to do before he actually did it. A deep and primal part of him had only registered that somehow, Cerys had gone off to get herself into trouble bad enough that even Skelligers were afraid of it, and that the chances she was found before the situation escalated were next to none, and the only solution was for him to do something about it. 

There were several screams as he ran to the edge of the dock and leapt, letting his human face fall and stretching his natural form to its extent, taking off into the air. Immediately, he heard Regis attempting to do damage control and realized there was likely a better way to have handled his exit, but he couldn’t spare the energy to regret his decision. Holding the form he was in required all his focus, as he was not yet full recovered and had not held it for over a hundred years. Longer, in fact - it was one that came naturally to him, not the monstrosity he had become all those years ago in Beauclair. So to hold that form and fly, and search for a sign of a boat manned by his foolish young human or a trace of her scent on the wind, took a great deal of concentration. There was no room for regret.

He could not find the boat immediately, and he felt panicked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, long time no post! I ended up writing a MASSIVE DA:I piece which derailed my hyperfixation on B&W. I'm back now, though. I feel a new AU in my bones. A slightly less melodramatic AU. Possibly some Regis/Geralt? Who can say.
> 
> So cool story, I came back to the draft of this a little while ago and couldn't remember what I was doing. Good news; I figured it out and have mostly everything written so I can at least finish posting, because I hate leaving things unfinished. Bad news; there's probably some crazy-huge tone shifts after chapter 5 because I struggled to jump back into it, and also I am not a huge fan of this story anymore haha.


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